


Tuesday, 1:27 AM

by narrow_staircases



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Stuttering Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3903451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrow_staircases/pseuds/narrow_staircases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John patches Dean up after a hunt. Sam helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday, 1:27 AM

“I've never seen a spirit move so damn fast,” John says.

“You mean you weren't prepared for this, you didn't have the situation _under control_ ,” Sam shoots back. It's a low blow, and he knows that, but even with his belly clenched up at the sight of Dean's mangled wreak of a leg, he can't let it go.

John's too focused to rise to the bait, his 'Nam years showing. “Grab the med kit, Sam.”

Sam hovers momentarily, wanting to stick it out with his brother, but the noises Dean is making in his half-conscious, pain-addled state have his stomach lurching up into his throat. He escapes to the kitchenette, willing himself to hold it together, grabs the blue canvas bag from on top of the fridge. Fills a cup with water at the sink while his father does something to Dean's leg that makes his brother scream, raw and stuttering. Sam takes a deep breath and relaxes his grip, and the soft plastic walls of the cup spring back into shape.

When he gets back to the bed, Dean is propped up against a flat pillow, his eyes open but glassy. “F-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f,” he sputters, hitting the bed open-palmed in a steady rhythm. He does this, channels his pain management techniques into physical gestures when his tongue and lips betray him. Sam's realized that he always tries to curse anyway, though, and wonders if the punching is as much frustration with his speech as it is to take his mind off the pain.

John is more pragmatic, grabbing Dean's wrist tightly. “You're panicking, son. Get a grip.”

Dean shoots him a look that clearly says  _no shit I'm panicking_ , and continues to stutter, his fingers clenching spasmodically against the polyester comforter.

Sam moves around to the other side of the bed, carefully directing his gaze away from the slowly spreading stain under Dean's left calf. He takes his brother's other hand, lets Dean squeeze so hard his fingers grind together. “Come on, Dean. Just breathe with me, okay? You're gonna go into shock or something.” Dean's muscles are still taught, his nerves on edge, but he stops trying to swear and shuts his eyes. “Focus, Dean,” Sam instructs, trying to steady his own voice. “Deep breaths. In and out.”

Sam counts his own breaths carefully, filling his lungs from the bottom and holding for a few seconds before slowly letting the air out again. He's been doing this for years, letting Dean match breaths with him. Usually it was because Dean was blocking hard on a word, though, not because something that went bump in the night had made a mess of his leg and he was bleeding out on an Econolodge double bed. And actually it's been years, anyway, since Sam's helped him with his breathing routines, or played copy-cat. Somewhere around ninth grade Dean decided to take all that under his own belt, tackle this thing on his own.

He had thought that he missed being needed. Now he's not so sure. Dad's crusade seems a little less terrifyingly _insane_ when Dean's there as the first line of defense, always capable of handling John's crazy hunting schemes and drunken episodes without batting an eye. This, though: this leaves Sam feeling exposed. Dean needs him again, but Sam's pretty sure he'd rather be the one who gets to need Dean.

“Nnn-hnnn—” Dean's eyes shoot open, his head turned away from the cup of water and Vicodin John's offering. “Mm—mmorphine, D-d-dad.” He blanches white as John shifts away from him, accidentally jostling his leg, and Sam's fingers go numb from the pressure. “Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-it-t-t, _p-p-p-please_ ,” Dean gasps. Sam and John both look at each other, and Sam can see whatever instinct John has to tell Dean to _buckle down and ride it through_ drain away under his youngest son's terrified gaze and his eldest's begging. He fishes around in the bag for the long, thin case holding a syringe and a half-empty vial, drawing a dose and tapping away the excess air bubbles while Dean continues to mutter, “F-f-f-fuck, D-dad, p-p-p-p-please. . .” Sam puts a hand on his brother's chest without thinking, assures him that it's going to be okay, reminds him to _breathe._

John twists a handkerchief around Dean's upper arm in a makeshift tourniquet, and holds down his palm with one knee. With his free hand he flicks at the crook of Dean's elbow to bring up a vein, then slides the needle in before Sam can steel himself or look away. John's battlefield brusqueness is chilling, even though Sam knows that it's literally saved their lives dozens of times. He doesn't know what to feel, so he turns his attention away from his father, who's started to pull bandages and sterilizing cream out of the med kid, and back to Dean, listening to their slow, matched breaths as Dean's eyes sink closed and his grip on Sam's hand gradually relaxes.

 


End file.
